


Delights From When You and I Are Alone

by dvrling



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Emetophilia, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:48:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8988970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvrling/pseuds/dvrling
Summary: It’s one thing he can’t complain about, since Joker has installed himself into the Manor. Everything is clean and nice. Tidy. But there are difficulties.





	

Whenever Joker calls him anywhere in the Manor, Bruce has to make-believe he doesn’t want to pull his hair out and scurry down to the Cave where he can be normal and at-home and alone.

He never knows what Joker wants, at any time. Some nasty pictures are always in his head. Bruce is paranoid that one day Joker will wake him up and tell him that he’s murdered Alfred, and he’s really very sorry, then describe the type of noises Alfred made when he was being murdered. But it’s not a new fear.

Joker has called him to the bathroom. It’s almost blinding when lit. Plasticky laminate over marble on the floor and walls reflect light from some high-hanging, modern fixture. Toiletries and makeup are placed neatly on the polished enamel sink.

It’s one thing he can’t complain about, since Joker has installed himself into the Manor. Everything is clean and nice. Tidy. But there are difficulties.

The bathtub is full of blood. And for five or so seconds, Bruce is captivated. The way the red makes the white seem even more brilliant. The way the filmy surface is perfectly still, like the Joker isn’t breathing. He looks like a statue, languid, sitting back. The blood washes him out. It’s fascinating. At first blush.

Then Bruce feels the burn of nausea. Joker starts speaking, without looking at him.

“I of course thought about rose petals, too, but I figured that’d be a bit _much_.”

It’s a bizarre situation, because many things that Joker has done have made Bruce want to vomit, but he’s never been in a place where he could, and might. The toilet looks attractive, as the illness settles. He thinks he’s sweating.

But to brace himself on the toilet, to avoid chyme on his turtleneck, would be to put himself directly by that sick image: thirty-something gallons of blood in the Manor. Or maybe twenty.

He doesn’t want to think of how Joker it got in here, and for what reason, or whose it is, but the questions will eat at him anyway.

Maybe this isn’t the first time. Maybe this is something he does. “Oh, Bruce? I bathe in the blood of virgins to preserve my youth, like some Mesopotamian demon. I just thought you should know.” (That’s an expensive habit. Does the tap water taste especially irony? Is it tinged red?)

God. Imagine the stains it’s going to leave. Bruce will have to scour the tub with bleach. And also himself. Think of how it’ll ruin the plumbing, going down. There will be blood everywhere. Leaking from the faucets. In shower heads. In the toilet.

Whose blood? It must be human. It smells human.

Bruce tries to lower himself to the toilet rim without falling. His legs feel weak.

There’s a patter of steps, as Joker gets out of the bath, and blood drips everywhere, and thins out on the watery tile. He shrugs into a robe hung on a metal hook. Bruce can picture him: looming, grotesque. Self-satisfied. With demonic attributes.

The flawless scene is a little less flawless as the blood gets everywhere. The white of the room is all tinted red. There’s so much, it feels like the bathroom will never be clean again. No matter the detailing or scrubbing, it will never be the way it was.

And Joker? The blood compliments him, weirdly. It’s like his natural state. He could walk around Gotham this way and no one would say a thing. It’s a look for him.

Bruce wonders about the temperature. If Joker’s in it only for the aesthetic benefits, the blood is probably cold. If he wants to freak Bruce out, well. Probably it’s warm, like he bled a few people into the tub and disposed of them, so as not to sour the mood.

He feels Joker get on his knees, and press against his back. So much for sparing the sweater. The stains won’t be worth the effort to remove. Bruce thinks about torching his clothes.

Joker’s arm around his waist is not reassuring. It’s more of a lukewarm.

“Don’t worry, darling, please.” Joker runs one hand through Bruce’s hair. Getting blood there, too. “Suffice it to say, none of this is mine.”

“Where did it come from?”

Joker places a few fingers on Bruce’s chin. They’re soft, from paraffin wax treatments, or something. He sighs, and says, “Don’t let’s talk about it, darling. You’re already so nauseous.”

And Bruce gags into the toilet. He leans into it, and Joker movies with him, trying to push himself up a little. Like he wants to see the action.

Bruce doesn’t like that he can picture Joker’s face as he says, “Oh, I really like you this way.” The adoration. The pride that bleeds into it, and dissolves his glib charm.

Then Joker’s fingers are in his mouth, pressing against the front of his throat. Like it’s another thing about Bruce he knows how to set off. The taste of someone else’s blood gives a spike in his nausea.

This was inside of someone. Maybe they donated it. They would be _shocked_ at its gross misuse. Or maybe they “donated” it. What if they had a disease? What if he gets sick?

Joker lets his hand linger, for a second, even as Bruce throws up bitter liquid. Once the heat is through, he uses the same hand to grope Bruce as he coughs and spits into the bowl. Not very rough, kind of half-into it, like it’s an afterthought.

Bruce doesn’t know if Joker is trying to get him off on this, or if he’s trying to make him vomit again. It’s always hard to tell. Maybe he’s a fetishist. He never mentioned it. He’s passably erotic. But the effort is wasted, as Bruce tries to shake off the nausea. The lightweight relief has already passed back into disgust.

There’s a prickling in Bruce’s chest, physical static, and an ache. He’s not quite panting, but his breathing is shallow. He’s shuddering, slightly. His face and hands feel damp.

Joker pulls him off the toilet and turns him around. Bruce really sees all the blood, even under the robe. It’s coagulated on his skin into sticky, messy, dark red.

Bruce vomits again, clear, wet, on their thighs, and Joker is quick to catch some of it in a kiss. He holds Bruce’s face with both hands. A string of drool stretches between their lips as he sits back.

“Sick,” Bruce says shortly.

Joker looks at him fondly. A genuine smile, with teeth. Like it’s a good taste. It’s a look he gets often, and Bruce tries to imagine anyone else looking at him the same way, in this situation. Or the Joker, doing this with some other person. He can’t.

In a way, it’s nice. It lets him place the blame on the choice. He chose this. Picked his punishment. And any other Bruce with any other Joker would be here, vomiting on the floor, and covered in blood.

**Author's Note:**

> [title src](https://youtu.be/GncdOa29q5M) and content + some general advice on this fic from [mitzvah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Melting/pseuds/mitzvah)


End file.
